Braving His Past: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Page 10

  “Do you kill people?” he asks.

  “Yes. When I have to. Though I’m the youngest, and the others...I think they still try to protect me from it as much as they can. I’m the only one who didn’t see actual combat in the military. But K&R is dangerous work, and my hands aren’t clean.”

  “Oh, God. Why would you—?”

  He pulls away, and my heart sinks down to my toes. Rising, I start to pace his living room. “Because since I signed on, we’ve saved twenty-six people. Without us, they’d be dead. The military and the government can’t go places we can. We’re the best at what we do, and we’re…a family. I’d die for any one of them if I had to without a second thought.”

  I can’t read him. His eyes, usually so expressive, are wide with shock. Fuck. This was a mistake. I’ve lost him. I knew the risks, but now…shit. I’ve ruined the fragile trust he gave me, and what’s worse? I can’t leave without making him understand how important it is that he never breathe a word of this to anyone.

  With my hands shoved deep into my pockets, I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Quinton. My baggage is way too much to dump on you all at once. I’ll leave, and you won’t see me again. But I need you to promise me that all of this—everything I’ve told you tonight—stays between us. This is life and death for me and everyone I call family.”

  “Stay,” he whispers and pushes to his feet. But his legs give out, and I catch him, my arm banded around his waist.

  “I don’t understand. You heard me, right? That I kill people? Regularly?”

  He nods, and I can’t decipher the emotions swirling in his eyes. Until he lets out a sigh. “That’s not what I meant when I asked why.”

  “Then what did you want to know?”

  His fingers tighten on my biceps, and those brown eyes hold mine. “Why would you trust me with all this? You don’t even know me.”

  “Because I want to know you. You’re a good person. I can tell. I’ve been trained to be able to tell. But also…someone hurt you.”

  He flinches, and if I weren’t sure he’d been through some shit before, I am now.

  “You don’t have to tell me about it. Not yet, anyway. But you need to know that you’re safe with me.”

  “You should let me go,” he whispers.

  “Am I hurting you?” I slide my hand up and down his spine, checking for swelling, feeling his terror in every breath.

  “No. But Graham, I’m broken. My life is a fucking mess, and I don’t just mean my back.”

  I’d do anything to banish the pain from his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

  “I haven’t trusted anyone but my brother in over a year.” I can barely hear his reply, and he won’t look at me anymore.

  “But do you trust me?” Cupping his cheek, I lean in and rest my forehead against his. “I told you about what I do because I want to see where this goes and we can’t do that if we don’t trust each other.”

  “What’s your real name?” he asks.

  “Graham Davidson Peck.”

  Quinton chokes out a laugh, but it’s not one that reassures me even a fraction. “Not Tempelton, but Peck? Like Tempelton Peck? Face from The old A-Team tv show? You’re trying to tell me you work for the A-Team?”

  “Kind of? We help people when no one else can. Though we’re not currently wanted by the government since we don’t officially exist. And when your last name is really Peck, what better alias is there? My boss let me choose, and my parents and I would watch the A-Team every Friday night when I was a kid. Face—Templeton Peck—always knew what he was doing. I never do.” It’s my turn to blush, at least a little, and I breathe in Quinton’s scent. Fuck. I want him like I haven’t wanted anyone in years. Maybe…ever. He’s still too spooked for anything but comfort, and I won’t do a damn thing he’s not ready for, but I don’t want to leave him. “My mom is LuAnn, my dad is Davidson—David for short. They live in Ann Arbor. I have one sister—Jennifer.”

  He studies me, like he can’t quite decide if I’m telling the truth. Eventually, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and when he opens them again, I can tell he believes me. “My brother saved my life. But we almost never talk.”

  “How come?”

  Shaking his head, he stammers, “I...not tonight.”

  “I won’t pressure you. For anything. That’s not my vibe. I just want to get to know you. When—if—you want that.”

  “Even if I’m so fucked up, I can’t even step outside my front door?” The pain in his voice makes me want to hold him. All night. Every night. It’s stupid—feeling this much this fast. But I can’t help it.

  “Your yard needs serious work. Can’t say I blame you for not wanting to go out there. It still smells vaguely of mint chip.”

  Humor is my go-to. The defense mechanism I pull out whenever things get too intense. But sometimes, it backfires in the most epic of ways, and I hold my breath until Quinton’s lips curve into the barest hint of a smile.

  “The store manager called me personally to apologize. Did you have something to do with that?” he asks.

  Shrugging, I guide him back to the couch. He’s letting me support more and more of his weight, and I think he needs to get off his feet. “Maybe. You had meds in there. And what? A hundred bucks’ worth of food? The asshole needed to know what his people were doing. If I overstepped, I’m sorry.”

  “No. You were right. I suck at standing up for myself. Or...asking for what I want.”

  “Well, practice. With me.” I lean against the arm of the sofa, intentionally putting some distance between us. “What do you want? Right now.”

  “I want you to stay.”

  The words seem to surprise him as much as they shock me. My brows shoot up, and half the blood in my body heads south, but apparently I have no poker face where he’s concerned, because his cheeks turn a deep red and he holds up his hands.

  “I didn’t mean...that. Not tonight. Shit. This is why you should run, Graham. I’m so messed up I can’t even explain—“

  I wrap my arms around him and pull him close. “You don’t have to.”

  The tension seeps out of him once he’s settled against my chest, his legs tucked up under him. After a few minutes, his breathing changes, and shit. He’s asleep.

  What the hell do I do now? Stay on the couch with him all night? We’d both regret it in the morning. Despite how good it feels to have him in my arms.

  After half an hour, when he still hasn’t moved, I whisper, “Q? I’m going to take you upstairs, okay?”

  He doesn’t answer, and I slide my arm under his knees. Thank fuck for all those jump squats West insists we do every couple of days. Q’s lighter than I expect, but still, it’s awkward as fuck to stand without jostling him awake.

  Peeking down the hall into the only other room on this floor, I find workout equipment, so his bedroom must be upstairs.

  The large bed takes up most of the space, and I pull back the dark blue duvet and sheet and lay him down before taking off his shoes. I have no idea if I should go any further. Or where the fuck he wants me to stay.

  The man’s fastidious about his security. Whether I sleep on the couch or in here on the floor, I have to double check all the locks first. Four on the front door, three on the back. When I’m done, I glance at his computer, checking for any motion events over the past hour. It’s all clear.

  “Graham?” Q’s panicked voice carries down the stairs, and I take them two at a time to get back to the bedroom. He’s sitting up, white-knuckling the sheets.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I...didn’t know if you were still here.” He relaxes slightly, then meets my gaze, the plea obvious in his eyes. “Are you…staying?”

  “I was just checking the locks.” Shoving my hands into my pockets, I find the faulty sensor. “I can take the couch. But if you have an extra blanket—”

  “The bed’s big enough...”

  Fuck. He’s so hesitant. Like he expects me to be angry. Or to refuse. Sitting on the o
pposite side of the bed, I remove my boots and shove the security sensor into one, and my wallet, phone, and keys into the other.

  When I turn back around, he’s wriggling out of his sweat pants, revealing tight blue boxer briefs with pink hearts on them. It’s fucking adorable, and makes me want him even more. One day...I hope he’s ready for that.

  “You can...um...” He gestures to my pants and pulls back the blankets.

  “Are you sure?”

  His eyes go glassy. “I can’t…do anything.” There’s that shame again. The look that tells me he thinks he’s too broken to be worth anyone’s time. “Not tonight. My back hasn’t stopped spasming for hours. But I miss...being held.”

  “Then I’ll hold you. All night.” Shedding my pants, I catch the appreciation flickering in his eyes. My briefs are a lot tighter than they were a few seconds ago, but I will myself to calm the fuck down.

  I can’t get under the covers fast enough, and when he turns so I can spoon him, I press a kiss to the back of his head. “I’ve got you.”

  His little sigh as he relaxes is beautiful, and I reach up and flip off the light on the table next to him.

  I think I missed holding someone as much—if not more—than he missed being held. Because this? It feels...right.

  Chapter Twelve

  Quinton

  The sheets next to me are cool to the touch, and I roll over with a groan, though my back feels better than it has in weeks.

  Graham’s not here. Shit. Did he leave? Is my door unlocked? Oh, God. The first guy I trusted in more than a year, the guy who saved my groceries and brought me ice cream…I should have known superheroes like that don’t exist. And if they did, they certainly wouldn’t have any interest in me.

  After struggling into my pants, I limp down the stairs until I hear someone moving around in my kitchen.

  He did stay. Either that or I’m royally fucked.

  My left leg buckles on the last step, and I grab the railing.

  “Whoa there,” Graham says. “Careful.”

  He’s shirtless, and I can’t look away from his abs. Or the tattoo covering his left shoulder and arm.

  I am the master of my fate and the captain of my soul.

  I wish I had that confidence. “You stayed.” It’s all I can manage, and he frowns.

  “Did you expect me to walk out in the middle of the night?” He offers me a mug of coffee, and the scent helps clear my head.

  “I…err…no. Maybe?” I’m not proud of how shaky my voice is. Or how wrong I was.

  “Your last relationship must have been really shitty,” he says with a shake of his head. “Either that or you lied when you said you trusted me.”

  “I didn’t lie.” The words slip out on a whisper, and I’m still holding onto the rail like my life depends on it. “He was a nightmare.”

  “Q, I’m sorry.” His gaze softens, and he reaches out and skims his hand down my arm. “You didn’t have much in your cabinets, but I think I can manage pancakes. If you’re hungry—”

  The coffee mug hits the floor, the hot liquid splashing onto my fleece pants.

  “Shit!” Graham sets his cup down on the hall table, runs back to the kitchen, and grabs a dish towel. “Don’t move. You could slip.” Kneeling, he mops up the liquid and stares up at me. “What did I say? Or do?”

  I can’t answer him. Not until he stands right in front of me, all those muscles and ink and intense stare. Pain creases his brow, and he’s so serious. So respectful.

  “Quinton? Talk to me. Please?” Graham hasn’t touched me, and as the seconds pass, the disappointment in his eyes only grows until his shoulders slump. “Let me get my stuff, and I’ll go.”

  Before he can pass me on the stairs, I whisper, “Pancakes.”

  “What?”

  We’re only inches apart now. He’s one step above me, and that puts us at eye level, which is why I drop my gaze to my feet. “Pancakes. My…my ex made them every day. And I hate them.”

  “What about waffles? Donuts? Scones? Ice cream?”

  This amazing, considerate man is trying so hard, and I can’t even look him in the eyes. All I can manage is to stare at his chin. The dark brown stubble, the dimple under his lower lip.

  The firm line of his mouth shifts from worry to frustration. “I’m not him, Q. I won’t hurt you. Won’t force you to do anything you don’t want.”

  “I never said anything—” Shit. I did. Last night. Not the details, but do they even matter? He knows my deepest fears, and he’s actively trying to dispel them.

  Graham eases down a step, giving me the height advantage. “I know the signs. Comes with my training. And years of therapy. You keep expecting me to be angry or shout or do something that scares you or hurts you so badly, you can’t defend yourself. I’m not that guy.”

  “He broke me.” The words stick in my throat, and only Clementine winding around my ankles keeps the panic from swallowing me whole.

  Graham scoops her up and places her in my arms. “She was whining and basically climbing my leg until I put some kibble in her bowl.”

  “You fed my cat.”

  His brows furrow, and he curses under his breath. “I didn’t mean to overstep. With any of it. Breakfast, Clementine, staying the night. I’ll go.”

  Stop it, Q. Stop being a fucking coward.

  Clementine head butts my chin, and she’s purring so loudly, it’s all I can hear.

  “You didn’t overstep.” Digging deep for a fraction of an ounce of bravery, I reach for his hand. “You…took care of her.”

  Neither of us move or speak until Clementine wriggles out of my arms and sniffs at my damp pant leg. I can do this. Take one step towards a normal life.

  “Breakfast comes with a lot of baggage. For me.” Dropping my gaze, I try to force Alec’s voice from my head. “I can do coffee.”

  “I’ll make you a fresh cup.”

  Graham

  If I don’t get a move on, West is going to kick my ass. One of the newbies, Raelynn, is coming by for a crash course on some of our more traditional tech. Ryker’s starting her and Caleb off at a snail’s pace. Our fearless leader doesn’t trust anyone. Not even after Raelynn’s former CO called him personally.

  West’s message—the one I got moments after I woke up with Quinton still in my arms—told me to be at the warehouse at nine, and it’s already 8:40 a.m. It’s a damn good thing Q wakes up early. Or did today.

  I left him with a slow, lingering kiss at his door, and an offer to bring pizza by for dinner. He agreed, and the prospect of seeing him again—even if it’s just a meal—has me grinning. I don’t care if West forces me to climb that fucking wall a hundred times today for showing up late, it’ll be worth it.

  Traffic is almost non-existent this early on a Saturday morning, though, and I park my tiny red SmartCar at the warehouse at exactly 8:58 a.m.

  Raelynn’s locking her bicycle up outside when I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder. “You rode here?”

  She clips her helmet onto the crossbar and snorts. “No. I walked here all the way from White Center. Carried the bike on my head.”

  I probably deserved that.

  “Sorry. Been kind of a weird morning. You can bring it inside, you know.” Angling my head towards West’s perfectly restored old pickup truck, I reach for the handle on the warehouse door. “Sampson’s already in there.”

  “Didn’t want to assume.” She makes quick work of the lock, then picks the bike up and balances the crossbar on her shoulder.

  Following me into the warehouse, she scans the large space until I point to the far corner. “Over there’s fine. Pretty sure one of those lockers has your name on it by now, so take a couple of minutes to stow your stuff and set your combination. Make it a good one.”

  Raelynn gives me the side eye as she sets the bike down. “A good one?”

  I don’t say another word as I head for the kitchen. Hell, I probably shouldn’t have warned her at all, but when I joined up, I made my c
ombo my mom’s birthday, and a week later, someone had taken all my shit and filled my locker with packing peanuts.

  My money’s on West, but despite having zero sense of humor, Ry’s the more likely culprit. He’s so fanatical about security, he routinely tells all of us whenever we’re not careful enough for his liking.

  “You call this ‘on time’?” West asks. “One more near miss and I’m going to padlock the coffee machine.”

  He’s deadly serious, but he also cracks a smile as he pours me a cup. It’s 9:00 a.m. on the dot. While yes, Raelynn and I are both here, that doesn’t matter. We should have been ready to go by now. Instead, I’m expressing my deep and abiding loyalty to the SEAL and Hidden Agenda by moaning into the coffee mug.

  “Want to explain that shirt?” he asks, one brow arched.

  Oh, shit.

  I meant to change the second I walked in here. Instead, I’m still wearing the black tee with the multi-colored sparkling unicorn emblazoned on the front. “Late night.”

  “As in one that didn’t end at your apartment?” He snorts, then claps me on the back as he heads for the tech hub. “I’ve done a few walks of shame in my life, Jimmy. Never one quite that blatant.”

  We use code names in the field. Most of the time, I’m Golf. But since the mission to Venezuela to rescue Trevor—one of Dax’s guys who got himself on the wrong side of the entire Venezuelan government—mine’s been Jimmy Olsen.

  “Give me two minutes.” I don’t dare set the coffee down. Given his mood today—surprisingly good—he’d spike it with salt to teach me a lesson about being on time. Instead, I rush over to my locker, enter the ridiculously long string of numbers on the keypad, and grab a fresh shirt, briefs, and a pair of basketball shorts.

  “So, this is a thing,” Raelynn drawls as I drop my pants.

  “What?”

  She’s averting her eyes. Is she actively embarrassed by me taking my clothes off in front of her? All she can see is my ass.