The Farther I Fall

The Farther I Fall

Lisa Nicholas

InterMix Books, New York

INTERMIX
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE FARTHER I FALL

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBL
ISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / January 2015

Copyright © 2015 by Lisa Nicholas.

Excerpt from
As Lost as I Get
copyright © 2015 by Lisa Nicholas.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19144-0

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For Bizzy and Gins, who showed me the way back.

“Sergeant? Stay with me. Come on. Look at me.” More distant, urgent: “Where's the fucking evac?”

Gwen jerked fully awake, gritting her teeth against the pain in her shoulder. Her throat burned with acrid smoke that wasn't there, and her ears thudded with small-arms fire. The heat of flames from months ago warmed her skin. The smell of blood was so strong she checked her shoulder to make sure she wasn't bleeding.

She sat up in an unfamiliar bed, blinking to clear her eyes. The voices of other soldiers yelling for help, for her to stay awake, still sounded in her ears.

Her breath slowed; she was in Los Angeles, in her sister, Sam's, guest room. The images and voices faded like mist. She swung her legs around the edge of the narrow bed, scrubbing her face and looking at the time: four thirty AM. It was already afternoon in London, and her body's clock hadn't adjusted yet. Sleep was gone for now, but she lay back down with one arm across her forehead. Out of the corner of her eye, the Royal Army Medical Corps tattoo on her upper arm—Aesculapius's staff with a wreath and crown with the words “In Arduis Fidelis” inked underneath—seemed to mock her. She turned her face away.

Her physical therapist said the pain would eventually go away completely. The scarring never would. When they'd first taken off the dressings, she'd asked for a mirror. Sam had been there, trying to be reassuring. Gwen had smiled and said, “Well, I won't have to worry about bikini season for a while, anyway.” The exit wound was the worst: a red-purple starburst nearly the size of Gwen's palm to the left of her collarbone. The nurse holding the mirror said something about the scar fading, about possible plastic surgery. Gwen looked at it and thought,
I survived you, you bastard.

When she went before the Medical Board, Major Woolston had declared her unfit for duty thanks to her injuries and the results of her psych evaluation and gave her extended medical leave. He'd pulled her aside afterward.

“Take some time to recover,” he'd said. “After that, well, even if you're discharged, we could still use you and your skills, Tennison. The TA can always use instructors of your caliber.”

“As a civilian,” she'd said. Training weekend warriors.

Woolston had nodded. “Think about it. You have my number.”

That was when she knew this leave was a precursor to a medical discharge. The Territorial Army wouldn't be enough. Nothing would be enough. She wouldn't even properly be part of the TA either; just another civilian working for the Crown. Thirty-four years old, and the one career she'd wanted more than anything was over.

But she was alive. Turner would still be alive too, if Gwen had moved faster. Janet, whose kids would never see their mother again, who used to try to set Gwen up with her brother-in-law. Janet had been looking forward to going home. She'd had a reason to leave the service.

Damn it.
Gwen pushed herself up off the bed with more force than was strictly necessary and pulled the nearest pair of jeans and T-shirt on. Even though it was still dark outside, she couldn't bear to lie there anymore. It would do her some good to go for a walk anyway.

And if she was really lucky, someone might try to mug her. Punching something sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

***

The television was blaring with some afternoon talk show or another, and Gwen was curled on the sofa staring at it. The days had become a gray routine: wake up, do physical therapy exercises, shower, work on halfhearted job search, watch telly. When had she last left the flat? She'd walked to check the mailbox two days ago. There'd been a letter from Mark Turner, Janet's husband. She hadn't opened it yet, but left it sitting on her dresser.

The sound of Sam's key scraping in the lock pulled her from her reverie. Sam came in with a smile on her face and a bag of Chinese takeaway. Gwen reached for the remote and snapped off the telly. “What's happened?”

Sam set the food down on the kitchen counter and started pulling out cartons and plastic bowls. “Come lay the table,” she said. “We'll eat first. Then we'll talk.”

Suspicions raised, Gwen went into the kitchen to do as she was asked. She pulled down plates from the cupboard and brought them to the table. “That sounds . . . like trouble.”

“It's not,” Sam said, taking a plate and dishing out a pile of noodles and vegetables. “It's brilliant. I can't believe I didn't think of it before.”

“Oh Christ.” Gwen snagged a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge—no booze in the house, not anymore. “You're not trying to set me up again, are you?”

For some reason, Sam's grin twitched. “No. Not like you're thinking, anyway.” She didn't say anything at first, paying attention to her dumplings and rice for a few minutes. Finally she took a deep breath and said, “I may have a job for you. And you're perfect for it.”

Gwen raised her eyebrows and spoke around a mouthful of noodles. “I don't need you to give me a job. Besides, I don't know a damn thing about the music business. What are you going to have me do, haul boxes around? File paperwork?”

“Better. Eat first.” Sam refused to say another word until they'd finished dinner and done the washing up. She steered them back into the living room and sat them down on the couch.

Sam settled cross-legged on the couch, which did nothing to dispel the image of her as a mischievous ten-year-old. “How much do you know about Lucas Wheeler?”

Gwen frowned. The name was familiar, vaguely. “Musician, yeah? One of yours?” Sam nodded. Gwen thought again. “In trouble of some sort? That's all I've got, really.”

“That's him,” Sam said. “Rising star, could be huge if he could get his shit together. He's about to go on an American tour and he's missing a tour manager.”

“Missing. Did you lose them?”

“We had to let him go.”

“No,” Gwen said. “Absolutely not.”

“You're perfect for it. All you have to do is keep things organized. Keep people on schedule and in line, make arrangements. It's a lot of logistics, but you could do it. You used to tell me all the time about how you kept up with inventory, dealt with some transport issues . . .”

“Sam.” Gwen shook her head. “I'm not taking a job from you.”

“Then what are you going to do? Tell me that. You've been sitting around here for weeks now. I wanted you to have some time to recover, but now you're not recovering, you're getting worse.” She reached across and touched Gwen's hand. “Look, I talked to Mum—”

“Oh, I'm sure that was enlightening. How drunk was she this time?”

“She's doing better.” Sam's voice was quiet and defensive. “She's worried about you too.”

“Too late.” Gwen pulled her hand away, folded her arms, and leaned back.

Sam drew a deep breath. “Gwen. I know about the nightmares. I hear you, every night. I need you to do this for me. Not just because we need somebody we can trust—because God knows we do—but because I need you to do it.” Gwen started to protest, and Sam cut her off with a hand-wave. “You need to get back on your feet, and you're not going to do that camped out on my sofa. I'm asking you to either take this job, or go back to England. I can't watch you self-destruct here.”

“I can't believe this. You're giving me an ultimatum?” Gwen had to bite back harsher words. This wasn't fair, and Sam was the last person she'd ever expected to do this to her.

“I love you,” Sam said. “But you're frozen here. I know you; you're meant to be helping people, out doing things. When you come back, you'll have some interesting stories to tell. And then you can decide what you want to do from there.”

“Why are you doing this?”

There was a long pause before Sam answered. “Because when I was drowning, you dropped everything to come out here and throw me a line. I want to return the favor.” She smiled. “Call it step twelve, if you want.”

Gwen met her eyes, which was a mistake. Sam needed her, so how could she say no? “Fifteen years in Her Majesty's army—I have my fill of interesting stories,” she muttered.

“Oh, but not like this.” Sam grinned. “This is rock and roll, Gwen. Come on. You know you want a chance to boss people around.”

Gwen snorted. “I'm not saying yes. But tell me about it.”

“Right.” Sam swung her legs down and leaned forward, all but rubbing her hands together. “Travel around the United States. Hang out with a group of close-knit but dysfunctional individuals and get to know them far too well. Deal with the money, keep everyone on schedule. Keep things going.”

Gwen pulled a face. “Sounds like me on our last family holiday as kids.”

“But
better
.”

“All right, what's the catch?”

“You're right about Lucas being in trouble. He's just out of rehab. We—well, we hope it took this time, for lack of a better word, but we're not sure.”

Gwen rubbed her forehead. “You want me to babysit an addict.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Sam—”

“It's not like you haven't done it before.” Her voice was soft enough that Gwen looked up at her.

“That was different.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said with a faint grin. “That time you wasted your entire leave getting me sober. This time it'll be your job. Gwen . . . he can be difficult. I won't lie.” Gwen gestured for her sister to continue. “The Wheeler family, they're pretty posh. Lucas has a brother who is both protective and well-connected. He's spoilt.”

“This just sounds better and better.” Gwen leaned back against the couch cushions. “Anything else you need to spring on me?”

Sam found the edges of the couch cushions very interesting all of a sudden. “He likes to push buttons, especially with women. He can be a cad. We've lost some good people from this tour because they couldn't cope.”

“I thought he was gay.”

Sam gave her a wry grin. “He doesn't like to limit himself.”

“Right, so you're saying he'll hit on me?”

“Likely. He can be very . . . charismatic.”

“And I'm guessing petulant and arrogant and rude,” Gwen said. “Not in my top ten list of traits I look for in a shag.”

“No,” said Sam with a twist of her mouth, “but drop-dead gorgeous and needy
are
.”

“I'll think about it. I mean, with a recommendation like that, how could I say no?”

“Great. Tomorrow night we'll go out and I'll start introducing you around.” Sam grinned, and Gwen tried not to wince. She knew that look. That was the look Sam wore when she'd just got her way.

***

“Are you sure this is necessary?” Gwen leaned in the doorway to Sam's room. “I'm really not in the mood.” She was in sweatpants and slippers and had every intention of staying that way. “And I don't have anything to wear.”

“I've got things you can borrow,” Sam said. “You can't stay cooped up in my flat all the time.” She bent towards her mirror, jaw dropped as she tilted her head and applied mascara, her burnt orange minidress threatening to ride up her thighs. “Come on. Just for an hour. I want to introduce you to some people you might be working with.”

“I haven't said yes yet.”

“Just for an hour.” Sam capped her mascara and turned to her. “If you're not having fun, we can leave.”

That was how Gwen wound up waiting in a line outside of a busy LA club wearing her sister's slinky white dress. The dress's neckline hid her scar, but its sides had cutouts and it was frighteningly short. Between that and the heels—which she was woefully out of practice wearing—Gwen watched each step. She'd let Sam mess about with her makeup and her hair—shaggy as it was, growing out of her short desert haircut. In the end, Gwen was forced to confess that she looked pretty cute.

The bouncers knew Sam—as a junior vice president for R & E Music's tour management division Sam knew a lot of people—and they got to bypass the main area of the club for the VIP lounge.

Gwen had never seen such a collection of beautiful people. Sam walked right in like she owned the place, but Gwen hung back, watching in awe as her little sister led her through the room, waving and yelling greetings at people left and right. If she took this tour manager job, this might become her world too. There was no way. She'd never fit in.

The music thumped in her chest, and every breath she took was tinged with the heat and scent of so many people drinking and dancing. Sam pulled her through the crowded dance floor, looking back at her with an encouraging smile. She stopped at one of the seating areas, a set of low-slung chairs.

“I'll get us some drinks,” Sam said in her ear. When Gwen arched an eyebrow, she said, “Just club soda for me, I promise.”

Gwen considered how best to sit down in the low seats without flashing anyone. She perched on the edge of a seat and glanced around.

“Is this seat taken?” Gwen looked up and it was like a punch to the solar plexus. The man standing there was stunning: long dark hair falling in messy waves just past his shoulders, pale skin. His features were clean and masculine, a sharp nose and strong jawline, a slightly pouty mouth. He wore deep tan leather trousers so tight Gwen was surprised they hadn't split open and knee-high black boots laced three-quarters of the way up his calves. With that and the loose, billowy white shirt and short leather jacket, he looked almost . . . piratical. Wordlessly, she shook her head, hoping her mouth wasn't hanging open.

He sat down and leaned over to close some of the space between them. “Haven't seen you here before.”

“I'm just—visiting,” said Gwen.

His eyes widened, and at this distance she could see they were deep blue. He smiled. “So I hear. Are you staying long?”

“It's . . . up in the air for right now.” She'd never be able to go back to the RAMC, much less Afghanistan, and the thought of spending the rest of her life teaching part-time soldiers how to bandage a wound was hard to bear.