The Farther I Fall (6 page)

“Great. Go change and meet me down in the hotel gym. I've cleared some time for us. Come on.”

“But—we aren't going to train here?”

She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. “Of course not.” She didn't trust herself for a minute to grapple with him in the privacy of his suite.

He was still muttering under his breath when she closed the door.

The machines stood silent in the hotel gym, the television in the corner off. Gwen wiped her sweaty palms against her yoga pants and tried not to pace across the gleaming wood floor. They had half an hour, and she wanted to start simple.

The door creaked open and Gwen's mouth went dry, caught by the sight of Lucas in a black tank top that skimmed over his chest and abs, revealing a pair of wiry and sleek shoulders. The top barely met the waist of a low-slung pair of gray training pants. She didn't need to see him turn around to know they were molded to his arse. The way his pulled-back hair exposed his neck made her go a little wobbly.

Damn it, he'd said something. “Sorry, what?”

“I said, why not just teach me to shoot?”

“
Americans.
You and your guns.” Gwen tried to gather her thoughts. “First of all, you don't have a gun”—she raised her hand when Lucas opened his mouth—“and you're not getting one. There's no time for you to learn proper gun safety. Second of all, you'd likely be the one getting shot when it got taken away from you. Any other questions?”

Lucas eyed the floor dubiously. “Shouldn't there be a mat or something?”

“No. You're not going to throw me, and I'm not going to throw you. Not today. This is much more basic than that.” Hotel gym or not, she wasn't about to sprawl on the floor above or beneath him, not while he looked like that.

He folded his arms and settled into a wide-legged stance, and she tried not to be distracted.

“The first thing to remember is this: Don't be a hero. Your only goal is to get away. So anything I show you is to do just that. Break free, incapacitate enough to get away. Nothing else. Got it?”

Lucas nodded.

“If you want to make someone lose interest in you in a hell of a hurry, you want to aim for the eyes, the nose, the throat, or the groin.” He winced, and she said, “Exactly. You're not trying to play nice here, Lucas. If someone's coming after you, you fight dirty.” She demonstrated, swinging a hand slowly up toward Lucas's face, fingers out.

He barely blinked, focusing with an intensity she hadn't seen anywhere except the stage.

“You want to jab at the eyes, or at the throat. Aim is tricky, but if you hit, it's effective as hell.” Another swing, flat palm forward. “Flat of your hand against the nose—you've got a good chance of breaking it. As to the groin”—she gave a faint grin—“I'm sure I don't have to tell you that any sort of hit will work, but grab, twist, and pull generally works best.”

He didn't so much as twitch the corner of his mouth. “Anything else?”

“Well, sure—anything that's soft and exposed will do. But remember: you're not in this for the whole fight. Incapacitate, and run.”

He nodded. “How do I—”

In one smooth movement, she reached her left arm across and grabbed him by the wrist, trying to catch him off-guard, test his reaction.

Then she had to duck when a set of long fingers came jabbing at her eyes. She grinned up at him, swallowing around a burst of pride. “Well done.”

“Too slow.” He frowned. “And you're still holding on to me.”

“Maybe I can't bear to let go yet,” she teased.

“If that's what you have in mind—” He turned his arm and ran his fingers up her forearm.

“Your instinct is a good one,” she interrupted. His fingertips tickled her arm with their feather-light touch, but she couldn't find her voice again for the pounding of her heart. She broke their shared gaze and cleared her throat. “Now, speaking of this,” she said, nodding at her hand on Lucas's wrist, “the weakest point of any hold is right here.” With her free hand, she pointed at the space where her thumb and forefinger met. “Take advantage of it. I'll show you.” She let go of him and put his hand around her wrist. “Hold on tight.” He did, the heat of his fingers tingling against her skin. With a few twists of her arm, she was free.

“Show me again.” She did. They went back and forth several times, Lucas watching intently, then practicing breaking free himself.

“What about the hold you had me in earlier?” Lucas asked. “In my room. How do I get out of that?”

Gwen laughed at him. “I thought you said you trained on this stuff.”

“Maybe it's been a while?” He grinned sheepishly.

She shook her head and stepped behind him, grabbing his right arm and twisting it up again. “Easiest thing in the world,” she said. “Turn toward me.” He tried to turn to the right, but the pressure in his shoulder stopped him. “Other way,” Gwen said. “Towards your free arm.”

He did, and something clicked in his face, because then he raised his free elbow as if to strike her.

“There, you got it,” she said, feeling ridiculously proud of him. “Again.”

After a few rounds, he stopped. “Do you really think I'll need this?”

“I don't know.” She wished she had something more reassuring to say. “Probably not.” Meeting his eyes, she gave him a short smile. “I might have a small tendency to overplan.” Which made for an awkward segue for what she needed to say next. “Lucas, I'd feel a lot better if you had someone with you all of the time. Just until this gets resolved.”

“When you say ‘with me all the time' . . .”

“Staying in your suite with you, that sort of thing.” She said it fast, to get it over with.

“Well.” The grin was obvious in his voice; she didn't even need to look up. “If you wanted to move in, you could have just said so.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “I didn't mean just me, but it looks like I've drawn the short straw for now.”

“I guess I won't complain,” he said.

She cleared her throat. “Back to work—we don't have much time.” She reestablished the hold she'd had around his wrist. “Now. Tell me what you'd do if you were facing more than one attacker . . .”

***

An hour before dinner, Gwen brought her things down to Lucas's suite. She took a breath and pushed the door open. Moisture hanging in the air and the patter of water from the bathroom turned her errand into a race to see if she could get settled and out of the room before Lucas finished his shower.

When she was halfway through making up a bed on the large sofa, the bathroom door opened. Lucas stood in the doorway, barely clutching a towel around his narrow hips. God, this was going to be more difficult than she'd thought. “Uh, hi.”

“Oh. Thought I heard you come in,” he said. He walked over to the minibar and Gwen tried to ignore him, tried not to stare. The towel sat low enough to reveal the top of his arse. Her face flushed and her hands clenched like she wanted to hit something. Or someone.

Lucas showed no signs of going to get dressed, and Gwen knew she was being watched. He said, “Sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Nothing I haven't seen before.”

“Oh, well in that case.” The towel hit the carpet. She rolled her eyes, but she looked anyway, as he meant for her to—and forgot to breathe. Seeing him in the tank top hadn't prepared her. There was barely an ounce of fat on his body, muscles long and agile and defined. He wasn't bulky, like some of the Yank soldiers she'd known, but lean and defined, a dancer's body instead of a warrior's—and gorgeous, all pale skin and dark hair. The monochrome was marred by only two things: the vivid blue of his eyes and the darkening red of his cock, which lingered in that tempting space between fully flaccid and fully erect.

She raised her eyes up the length of his body until their eyes met and held. One breath, two. Her pulse pounded in her temples as Lucas parted his lips as if to speak. Gwen's left hand clenched tighter at her side, fighting down a sudden curiosity to find out what the hair on his chest felt like.

Lucas stayed still. If he'd smirked, if he'd so much as raised an eyebrow at her, she would have rolled her eyes and turned away. He didn't.
I could do this,
Gwen thought. This wasn't a power play, like in the green room. This was an invitation. She could accept. Hell, she
wanted
to accept. She felt the pull in her belly as they stood looking at each other. He was waiting for her to make a decision, letting her set the terms. What would change, if she gave in? She crossed the room slowly, then raised her hand and touched his chest. His eyelids flickered as if he were fighting to keep his eyes open.

Her fingertips caught in the moisture on his skin, the coarse hair covering it curled with humidity. Gwen closed her eyes and let her hand move up along his collarbone, then back down in a slow, sweeping stroke. When she opened her eyes, Lucas was watching her with intense curiosity in his eyes. It was unfair, how beautiful he was. He leaned down, but didn't kiss her mouth as she'd hoped, instead placing one light kiss on the side of her neck, making her shiver. Water from his hair seeped through the shoulder of her shirt as he kissed her once more, over her pulse. He reached up and unfastened one of her buttons.

Her heart raced beneath his lips and fingertips. She should stop this before it went any further, but her head spun, her palm tingling where it lay flat against his chest. His heart was pounding too. Lucas unfastened another button, and nuzzled aside the collar of her shirt, away from her shoulder . . . and gasped. It was the scar—the violent, livid starburst pattern that proved her survival.

Gwen swallowed and pulled away, breaking the connection before re-buttoning her shirt. “Get dressed.” She refused to meet his eyes, afraid of seeing disgust, or worse, pity. “We're meeting the others downstairs for dinner at seven.”

She left before he could say anything.

***

Lucas got into a long argument about prog rock with Craig and Sally after dinner, and by the time they dropped him off at his room, Gwen was asleep on the sofa—or feigning sleep remarkably well. They had a flight to Washington to catch in eight hours. Gwen had packed already, her belongings stacked together. His clothes were scattered everywhere, flung haphazardly each time he got dressed. He gathered them up and started packing, pausing now and then to look at the woman sleeping nearby.

Gwen was sprawled on her back like an extravagant child, legs a jumble under the covers. Her right arm was thrown up over her head, face turned into the crook of her elbow. The line of her neck stretched taut under her skin. Lucas had a sudden overwhelming urge to lean over and lick it. The thought stopped him where he stood, and he breathed deep for several moments, mirroring the steady breathing of Gwen asleep.

God, he wanted her. Even more so now, after everything that happened earlier. As a tour manager, she was getting better, there was no arguing that, but when she was training him, he could see she was truly comfortable, in her element. In the gym, he was on her turf. More than once he'd nearly regretted wearing the pants he had, worried that she'd see or feel his reaction to her as she touched him, pinned him in place.

It wasn't the first time he'd met someone that made him want to kneel, to crawl, to submit, but it was the strongest reaction he'd had in a long time. And she had no qualms about manhandling him. His wrists still ached from where she'd grabbed him, and he wanted to savor that.

Then before dinner, they were so close, both of them obviously ready for more, and he'd bungled it again. He hadn't questioned why she left the service so young. Until he saw the scar on her shoulder—visible, tangible evidence of the violence in her past—he'd always assumed her enlistment was up. He'd reacted badly. She took his surprise as disgust, and that was why she'd pulled away and gone cold.

From here he could see the tattoo on her left shoulder. She'd shown it off one night after a show, everyone tipsy except him. He knew now it was her unit's insignia, and that night she'd explained the meaning of each part.
In Arduis Fidelis
. “Faithful in Adversity.” The words had new meaning for him now, after tonight. The idea that someone had lifted a weapon and fired at her, had caused her injury, shocked him. And she wanted to go back; that was obvious from the way she talked about it. She wanted to go back, even though he didn't think she was entirely okay—the first night, when she ran from him, he wasn't sure it was him she was running from.

It was one thing to think about the idea of military combat. It was something else entirely to see its aftermath.

Lucas threw his clothes into the nearest suitcase and pulled on a pair of shorts to sleep in. He wasn't tired enough yet, so he took his guitar out of the case. He turned off all the lights but the one by his bed and settled back against the headboard, cradling the instrument. He played almost silently, needing more to go through the movement than to hear the music. Muscle memory quieted his thoughts as his fingers moved, the sound of skin hitting strings louder than the music itself. It was a long time before he was able to get to sleep.

Gwen woke to her alarm the next morning with the uneasy sensation of having done something unutterably stupid the night before, as if she'd got drunk and danced on a table—oh. Not twelve hours before, Lucas had been parading around the room naked, wicked, and tempting, and she had nearly given in. Thank God she'd come to her senses.

She'd tried to go to bed early, but it hadn't done any good; she was still exhausted. During the night she'd jerked awake, sweaty and breathing hard, at least three times, certain at one point she'd screamed in her sleep. She wished she knew what would set off a bad night, so she could start avoiding it.

Lucas growled something unintelligible in the next room. He'd left his bedroom door open after she'd fallen asleep. Gwen reached across and turned off her alarm and he quieted. She shook her head and went to shower.

The flight to Washington was blessedly quiet, and this time, she remembered to nap.

She was getting the last of her things put away in the suite when the front desk rang to say Maggie Creighton had arrived. She brushed a quick hand over her hair, grabbed her phone and keys, and went to start the busy day in earnest.

The first order of business was to get Ms. Creighton settled. Gwen ran through the information Sam had emailed her. She went to school with Lucas. They'd been in a band, Altered Oblivion, five years before, and had made a small splash, cracking the Top 40 once or twice. The two of them split up, and she left Altered Oblivion for a solo career and hadn't looked back since. Some of the fans accused her of ditching Lucas for more money, but it hadn't seemed to hurt her career, nor had her unconventional approach to . . . pretty much everything.

“Ms. Creighton?” Gwen crossed the marble floor of the hotel lobby, her hand extended. The petite blond woman turned around and smiled expectantly. “Gwen Tennison, tour manager. Welcome to Washington, D.C.”

She shook Gwen's hand. “Maggie, please. So you're the new one?” Before Gwen could bristle, she added, “The new tour manager?” Her green eyes glinted with amusement. “Lucas has told me about you.”

“I shudder to think.” Gwen returned the smile. She wished she had changed into something sharper than jeans and a T-shirt and done more with her hair.

“Not at all. He was quite complimentary.” Maggie looked Gwen up and down and released her hand. “Not without reason, I see.”

Gwen returned the appraisal: Maggie made the olive green hoodie she wore look like it came off a runway, perfectly following her curves and unzipped enough to show some cleavage, and those blue jeans made everything Gwen had ever owned look like it belonged in a rubbish bin. The pictures of her days with Altered Oblivion did nothing for her—back then she'd been dark-haired and dressed in black. She'd completely reinvented herself since then. “I'm hoping you can tell me some good stories,” Gwen said.

Maggie laughed. “I think we're going to get along just fine, Ms. Tennison.”

“Ah, no. If you're Maggie, I'm Gwen.” She picked up Maggie's bags before the bellhop could. “Let's get you settled in. I'm sure you'll want to rest for tonight.”

“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than babysit me.” Maggie reached to take her bags back. “I know how this goes. Even now there are three people waiting for you to come and save the day, aren't there?”

Gwen chuckled. “Well. Maybe two. It's early yet. The third will come later.”

“Go.” Maggie winked. “I can take care of myself. If I get bored, I can always go harass Lucas.”

Gwen smiled, and hoped it didn't look tight and wrong. “Well then. I'll leave you to it. Lucas has my mobile number. Call if you need anything.”

She beat the other crew members to the venue, but only just. Cathy came walking up from the opposite side of the street as she was opening the stage door.

“Hiya,” she said. Her long brown ponytail swayed behind her as she jogged to catch up. “Ready for tonight?”

“Are we ever?” Gwen smiled.

“We will be. We always are.”

***

The first show in D.C. was spectacular. Gwen walked into the green room afterward with a sense of accomplished tiredness—something she'd grown to enjoy. Exhausted, but exhilarated at the same time. The usual rush of chaos and noise in the green room enveloped her, and she only wanted to find something to drink and sit down for an hour or so.

Lucas was already sprawled over one of the couches, taking up seating room for three. Or, well, two, Gwen amended. Maggie sat with Lucas's head pillowed in her lap. They'd been amazing onstage. The set list for the night had been changed around to include some duets, a few old Altered Oblivion numbers, and a few numbers designed to showcase Maggie's substantial talent. Gwen never thought she would hear a crowd at a rock concert cheer Bizet, but with Lucas's instrumentals and Maggie's vocals, it fit right into the rest of the show. Now she was leaning down to whisper something to Lucas, who laughed and reached up to tug at her long, perfectly wavy hair.

“Sergeant Tennison,” came a familiar voice from behind her. “You're a sight for sore eyes.”

Gwen turned around, smiling. Lee Wheeler, more casual than the first time she'd seen him—in a dark gray sports jacket worn over a rumpled black T-shirt and well-worn jeans—held out one of the two bottles of lager he carried. “If you keep calling me Sergeant Tennison, I'm going to start calling you Mr. Wheeler.”

“Anything but that.” Lee smiled. It was discombobulating to see Lucas's sharp, strong features on a clean-shaven face, and not surrounded by a mad fall of thick, wavy hair. Discombobulating, but not in the least bit unpleasant.

“You here for the show?” Gwen took a drink of her beer and looked for a place to sit. She spotted a quiet couple of seats over in the corner and nodded toward them.

“I live in town, so I thought I'd come see my baby brother.” He followed her, and they sat down across from each other.

Gwen said to hell with it and kicked her boots off, tucking her feet up under her in the battered old armchair. Her feet all but groaned in relief. “What'd you think?” The beer was perfectly cold, and she was tired enough that even American beer tasted like heaven.

“It was a great show,” Lee said. “He and Maggie always did work well together.”

“So I've heard.” She gave him a wry smile before leaning her elbow against the back of the chair and resting her head against her hand. The sound of Lucas's laugh carried across to them, and she glanced over. The two of them looked cozy.

“How about you?” Lee asked, leaning forward. “What do you think about touring so far?”

Gwen laughed and tucked her bottle against her thigh. “It's exhausting, honestly. Long days, moving around, a constant fight against chaos.” She grinned at him. “A lot like active duty. Except the bit about angry locals shooting at me.”

He returned the grin, and not all of the warmth in her face came from the beer. “I wouldn't rule that out yet,” he teased. “I've seen where you're going.”

Gwen raised her bottle in salute. “Thanks for the warning.” She drank, and they were quiet for a moment. “So are you coming to tomorrow's show as well?” It was early in the tour, but a two-night run gave them a chance to stop the constant motion for a night.

“I thought I might,” Lee said. “Listen, I had an idea. Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” Gwen admitted. Tonight there hadn't even been time for her usual pre-show sandwich in the green room. Drinking beer was probably a terrible idea.

“They don't need you here right now. Want to go grab some dinner?” His eyebrows lifted.

“God, I'd love to, but I'm a mess.” Gwen brushed a hand over her T-shirt, which had some sort of grease stain from helping wrangle equipment earlier.

“Nah, you're gorgeous,” Lee said, and a flicker of his eyes to hers told her that he meant it. “But if you insist, we can stop by the hotel and I'll wait downstairs while you change.”

Gwen felt a pleasant tingle down her spine and smiled. “All right then. You're on.”

As they were on their way out, Gwen caught Lucas staring after her. He didn't look happy, until he realized she was watching. He smiled a bland smile.

Sally met them at the door. “We're going out dancing later. Around midnight?”

“Text me where,” Gwen said. She grinned up at Lee. “I hope you can dance.”

He laughed. “I hope I can too.”

There wasn't time for a full shower, but Gwen cleaned up and messed with her hair before pulling on a new pair of skinny jeans and a sparkling dark blue tank top. She ignored her aching feet and switched out her boots for a pair of heels to give herself a boost against the ridiculously tall Wheeler brothers. She pulled on her black leather jacket and headed back downstairs.

“I had no idea you could get good Indian food over here,” Gwen said over dinner. “This is amazing.”

“We could get some more of the tandoori chicken, if you wanted.”

“Oh God, no.” She couldn't believe how much of it she'd eaten already. She'd be embarrassed if Lee didn't seem so charmed.

Talk turned to their respective military service. Lee had been stationed in Iraq in the early 2000s, a year or two before Gwen had shipped out for Afghanistan. He was still cagey about what he did these days. “Private security” was all she could get out of him. Possibly the second beer had been a bad idea.

She laughed more than she'd laughed on any date in years—and this
was
meant to be a date. Lee was charming in a way that Lucas tended to skip over, and while he made no secret of his interest, Lee also didn't make any presumptions about it. In the back of her mind, Gwen flashed briefly on the reaction Lucas had on seeing her scarred shoulder. Somehow she doubted Lee would be as shocked. Then again, from the hints she'd gathered from Lucas and from Sam, Lee probably had her entire military record stored somewhere.

“So how is he doing?” Lee asked, a little too casually.

“Lucas? He's fine.”

“Not giving you any problems?”

Oh.
“He hasn't missed a single call time, is always where he's supposed to be. Based on what I heard about him before, I think it's safe to say he's not using.”

“That transparent, am I?” He toyed with his water glass, giving her a sheepish smile.

“He's your brother. I get it. I have some recovering addicts in my family.” Only Sam, but she wouldn't out her sister like that.

“Is he being a gentleman?”

The absurdity of the question made her laugh, and she suspected it made her blush as well.

“Hey, I'm not intruding on anything here, am I?” Lee asked. “I saw Lucas and Maggie on the sofa and assumed—”

“No,” Gwen said quickly. “I mean, not really. He's a flirt, is all.”

Her phone buzzed.
Thank God.
Sally had sent her the name and address of the club. She grinned and showed him her phone. “Ready to go dancing?”

Lee stood and gave her a hand up. “I should apologize to your toes in advance.”

***

Lights strobed around the otherwise darkened dance floor and music throbbed through Lucas's body. Maggie danced with him, still wearing her costume, a striped little microdress and fishnet stockings. They both loved putting on a show, and they were getting plenty of attention, dancing close and dirty. She always had known exactly how to make him crazy—that much hadn't changed.

What they'd had before was done now; if he tried to get her to come back to his room, she'd laugh at him.

During one close pass, Maggie leaned in to shout over the music, “Your brother just came in with Gwen.” Whatever showed on his face, she laughed. “He seems pretty taken with her.”

Damn him anyway. Lee had never taken an interest in coming to one of Lucas's gigs before, but Lucas had heard him tell Gwen he planned to be at tomorrow night's too. Now he understood why. Lucas caught Maggie around the waist and swung her around while grinding their hips together, the better to see the table where the others were sitting.

“Oh my
God
, you're obvious.” Maggie laughed. “You've got it bad.”

“I do not.” Still, he resisted when Maggie tried to turn him away. Gwen and Lee sat at a tiny, high table with Craig, Sally, and Cathy. Gwen looked so good that his mouth watered. He'd gotten so used to seeing her in her work clothes: jeans, baggy shirts, boots. She made it easy to forget how fantastic her body was. Lee didn't have his arm around her yet, but they were bumping shoulders.

“Oh please,” Maggie said. “If you were any more interested, we'd have to put a sign that says ‘Property of Gwen Tennison' on your chest.”

“I am not hung up on her,” Lucas insisted.

“You should dance with her.” Maggie grinned up at him.

Before he had the chance, the song ended, and a new one started. Lee took Gwen's hand and led her onto the dance floor. Gwen started dancing with her arms overhead, hips swinging. His bastard brother followed her lead, keeping his hands to himself—for now.

Lucas turned to say something to Maggie, but she was gone, threading through the crowd back to their table. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a guy almost too pretty to be real, with a pouty pair of lips and heavy-lidded blue eyes lined in smudged black. He was wearing one of Lucas's concert T-shirts a size too small and a ripped pair of skintight jeans. “Looks like you lost your partner,” he said with a tip of his head.

What the hell. Lucas gave him a smile in return. “Not if you're volunteering.” They started dancing together, and he slithered against Lucas. Lucas slid his hand around to press firmly in the small of the man's back, keeping him there. He pulled him close and their eyes locked as they started to circle together, hips pressing. “What's your name?”